Appomattox Saga Omnibus 2: Three Books In One (Appomatox Saga)

by Gilbert, Morris

  For the next hour the president, Paul, and the two women spoke of the project. Finally Davis asked, “Mr. Bristol, would you be willing to undertake such a task?”

  Paul had expected this but said honestly, “It would be a great challenge, sir, but I must tell you that there are men in the South who are much better qualified than I am.”

  His manner pleased Davis, who nodded briskly. “There will be room for them if this turns out well.” He hesitated, then said, “This cannot be a military unit. I will have my secretary work out the details of financing the equipment, salary, and so forth. Are you free to begin at once?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Fine!” The president rose, saying, “Oh, one more thing, Mr. Bristol. In view of the rather controversial nature of this thing, I would prefer that you send all of your plates to my office.”

  “I understand.” Paul smiled. He knew that the selection of pictures for release would be made by the president and his wife, which didn’t disturb him. After a few more moments, he had received his instructions from the president, and Mrs. Chesnut showed him to the door.

  “I know this was your idea, Mrs. Chesnut,” he said. “I’m sure you know it will make things a great deal easier on me.”

  Mary Boykin Chesnut did indeed know a great deal about Paul Bristol. Some of it came from Clay’s daughter-in-law, Raimey, who was married to Dent. She was the daughter of one of the leading citizens of Richmond and so had known Mrs. Chesnut for some time. They often discussed each other’s families.

  “I hope this won’t interfere with your other obligations, Mr. Bristol…such as Miss Luci DeSpain?” When Paul stared at her in amazement, Mrs. Chesnut laughed, saying, “I’m an incurable romantic, Mr. Bristol, like most of my sex. But I daresay you can manage an engagement and a new profession at the same time.”

  Paul said, “I’ll bring my camera by and take your picture.”

  “Don’t waste your time with old married women.” Mrs. Chesnut smiled, then revealed her vanity by saying, “Well, bring your camera, Mr. Bristol, but give me notice so I can get my hair fixed!”

  Later that same day, at suppertime, Paul gave his news to his family. “I’m going to work for the government,” he announced when Marie kept after him about his interview with the president. He told the story, and their reactions were amusing. Marie began at once to clamor for a picture of herself. His father and Austin were obviously relieved. Now they have a good explanation for people who wonder why I’m not in uniform, Paul thought. His mother, he saw, was not as happy over his new career as he’d expected.

  “Does this mean you won’t paint anymore?” she asked quietly.

  “Just for my own pleasure—and yours,” he said, putting his arm around her. “The camera does it better than I ever could.”

  “No, I don’t think so. It’s so—mechanical!”

  “I don’t think so…not altogether,” Paul said pensively. “That fellow Brady, he’s got a knack of getting the—the quality of a person in his photographs. I saw the photograph he made of Jenny Lind. Even if you didn’t know who she was, you’d like the woman who smiles out at you. And that’s what I’m going to do, Mother. I’m going to catch the essence of what I photograph.”

  “But—I thought President Davis wanted you to take pictures of battles, Paul!”

  “Battles are men, and one picture of one man with his eyes dazed with the horror of war…that’s more effective than a picture of a thousand men marching in neat little ranks.”

  Marianne Bristol reached up and put her hand on Paul’s cheek. “I’m afraid President Davis may have trouble with you!”

  Paul kissed her, then laughed. “Well, it’s his turn! I’ve given you and Father trouble for the first half of my life; now let President Jefferson Davis have a taste of it!”

  CHAPTER 4

  THE ADVENTURE BEGINS

  New York was colder than Virginia, as Paul quickly discovered. December snow was still hard-packed on Broadway. The footing was precarious, and as Bristol disembarked from his carriage, his feet slid out from under him. He sprawled on the ground, and the cabby peered at him, grinned, and said, “Careful, gov’ner! Street’s a bit slippery!”

  Paul heaved himself upright, cast a baleful look at the man, and said, “Thanks for the warning.” He paid his fare, taking some consolation in withholding the extra dollar he’d planned to give the driver for bringing him from the railway station. The cabby, in turn, tossed Bristol’s suitcase down deliberately so that it hit the frozen sidewalk with a loud thumping noise. “Yer welcome, gov’ner!” He nodded disdainfully and touched the horse with his whip.

  Picking up the suitcase, Bristol turned to face the building and was disconcerted. He had told the cabby to take him to Brady’s Photographic Gallery, but he found himself standing in front of Thomson’s Saloon. Then he lifted his gaze and saw that the three upper floors were labeled BRADY’S DAGUERREOTYPE GALLERY. In the glass window resided some specimens of Brady’s fine daguerreotype work.

  After climbing the stairs to the second floor, the first thing Paul saw was two large folded doors made of glazed glass etched with figures of flowers. Passing through them, he found himself in a reception room at least twenty-four feet wide and forty feet long. The floors were carpeted in a deep rose, and velvet drapes embroidered with gold threads hung to the floor. The ceiling was frescoed, and in the center was suspended a glittering glass chandelier from which prismatic drops sparkled like stars. Imported curtains with intricate needlework decorated the windows, and the way the deep rich wood of the furnishings imprisoned the glow of the chandelier immediately told Paul that the furniture was rosewood. A large reception desk was to his left, and the walls were covered with portraits of great men and women—American leaders, living and dead, who had sat for Brady and for history.

  “Would it be possible to see Mr. Brady?” Paul inquired of a slender man wearing steel-rimmed glasses who was seated at the desk.

  The man looked up from the ledger he was examining and smiled. “Why, I think so. It’s uncommonly slack just now. He’s up on the top floor. You can go up those stairs.”

  “Thank you.”

  Bristol climbed the stairs and found himself in a large room where sunlight poured through skylights covered with mesh. Several men were gathered around a stove—drinking coffee, it seemed—and one of them spotted Paul. Leaving the group, he came forward to ask, “May I help you, sir?”

  “My name is Paul Bristol. I’m looking for Mr. Brady.”

  “I’m Mathew Brady.”

  Paul was surprised, for Brady was small and not at all impressive. He had sharp features, a pair of weak-looking eyes, and a mass of curly black hair. He wore a plain black suit covered with a white apron.

  Paul had come to New York after discovering that the equipment and supplies he needed could only be purchased there. It had occurred to him on the train that he might get some sound advice on new techniques from some of the New York photographers, and he’d come to Brady’s studio, not really expecting to get in to see the man. He knew Brady was very busy and tried at once to engage the smaller man’s interest.

  “I’m just back from France, Mr. Brady,” he said quickly. “I was a pupil of Monsieur Daguerre.”

  He had chosen his introduction well. Brady’s face lit up at once, and he said, “Ah! We must talk, Mr. Bristol. Yes, indeed. Come to my office.”

  For the next thirty minutes, Paul was rather hard put: Mathew Brady knew his trade and was vitally interested in any new developments in the world of photography. Though Paul did all he could to make his brief time under Daguerre seem much longer, he soon was out of his depth as Brady fired questions at him concerning techniques.

  “Mr. Brady!” Bristol said at last, holding up his hands. “I must confess, I am not a professional photographer. Only a beginner.”

  Brady was disappointed. “Oh. I was hoping you might be interested in joining my staff.” He saw that the young man was astonished at his proposal and
laughed. “Well now, let me explain. I have a dream, Mr. Bristol. I want to photograph this war we’re in.…” Paul listened as Brady went on to speak of how he’d gone right to the top, to General McClellan and President Lincoln. “Both have sat for me, of course, and they agreed that it would be a good idea. General McClellan even suggested that he would like photographs of enemy installations if such a thing were possible.”

  Bristol made a note of that in case it was something that President Davis might find interesting! But he said only, “A tremendous undertaking, Mr. Brady. But you’re the obvious choice for the job. Of course, you’ll be needing a great deal of extra help, covering the entire war.”

  “Yes, which is why I was hoping you’d come with us.”

  Paul took a deep breath, then said carefully, “Actually, Mr. Brady, I intend to photograph the coming battles myself, but from…a different point of view than the one you propose.”

  Brady’s eyes narrowed. “Where did you say you were from, Mr. Bristol?”

  “Virginia.”

  Brady’s expression changed, and suddenly a smile touched his lips. “I believe I understand.” He studied the young man, and Paul thought, He’s going to turn me in for a spy!

  But Brady had no such intention. “Well, sir, as a Union man, I must be for my country, but as an artist, I must be happy that the conflict will be covered from, as you say, a ‘different point of view.’ What can I do for you?”

  “I know you’re very busy, but if you could have one of your assistants fill me in on new techniques and give me some advice about where to buy equipment and supplies—”

  “Of course! The latter is easy enough. Go to Anthony’s Supply House. It’s on Broadway. Tell him I sent you and that I’d appreciate it if he gave you professional rates.”

  “Very kind of you, sir!”

  Brady looked across the room. “James, come here, please.” When a young man with a bushy crop of whiskers came to say, “Sir?” Brady nodded. “This is Mr. Bristol. James Tinney is my best assistant. James, take Mr. Bristol on a very thorough tour. Explain our new processes. Be very polite, for he’s going to do some fine things with our battle scenes.”

  “Really, sir?”

  “Yes, indeed!” Brady’s eyes gleamed with humor. “He’s going to photograph them from…a different point of view.” Then Brady put out his hand, saying, “If you will, send me some of your plates, Mr. Bristol. I’d like to see things from your perspective!”

  “If I am able, I’ll certainly do that, sir. And thank you very much!”

  James Tinney proved to be a gift from heaven to Paul Bristol. He was one of those people who loved to explain things, and for the next three days he kept Bristol at his side. There was no aspect of the art that he failed to demonstrate or to permit his pupil to try. Thus Paul was able to do the actual work while Tinney looked on and gave instruction and encouragement. Of course, everything in Brady’s was of superior quality. On one floor was the plate cleaning room and the electrotype room, and on another a spare operational room and chemical room.

  Paul used what little spare time he had at Anthony’s Supply House, laying in an enormous inventory of chemicals. In addition, he purchased a fine camera, complete with extra parts. It’s not like I can run down to the corner store and buy this material, he consoled himself as the costs soared. Whatever I use, I have to get right now!

  One week later—though Paul felt more as though he’d been in New York for months—he took the train for Richmond. He traveled in the boxcar to make sure no careless brakeman treated his precious cases roughly. As the train rattled and clicked along, Bristol smiled as he thought of his last visit to Anthony’s Supply House. When the clerk had presented the bill, a terrible temptation came to Bristol. He longed to say, “Will it be all right if I pay for this in Confederate money?” But he stifled that urge and paid in gold, the money having been advanced by President Davis’s secretary.

  Now I’ve got something to work with, Paul thought as the train rushed toward the heart of the Confederacy. All I need is time to learn, some good help—and lots of luck!

  CHAPTER 5

  A MOST UNUSUAL ASSISTANT

  Paul Bristol’s first month back home was hectic. Richmond had been a relatively small town a year earlier, but when it was decided to move the capitol of the Confederacy from Montgomery to Richmond, the city had mushroomed! Paul sought in vain for a place, almost any sort of place, to store his equipment and chemicals. But there was no place, or so it seemed. Desperate, he went to the president’s office, but Davis was off on one of his periodic trips to view military units and fortifications. The secretary could not suggest anything, and finally Paul hired a wagon and hauled his camera and supplies to Hartsworth, where he commandeered a part of a barn for his studio.

  But that was just the beginning. He had to build a lightproof room and places to store his equipment. Not being much of a carpenter, he would have been in trouble if his father and brother had not come to his aid. Not that they did much of the actual work, of course, but they put the hands to work. If it had been planting time, neither of them would have thought of taking the men out of the fields, but in January there was little field work to do.

  It took a few weeks, and when the last board was nailed in place, Claude said, “Well, I think we’ve done a fine job! I certainly hope President Davis appreciates it!”

  “Well, I don’t know about the president, Father, but I appreciate it!” Paul smiled warmly and clapped his father on the shoulder. “You and I and Austin, we make a pretty good team, don’t we?”

  Claude Bristol turned suddenly to stare at Paul. The pressure of his son’s hand on his shoulder gave him a queer feeling. It was, he realized, the first time he could remember Paul touching him since he was a boy. He nodded slowly, then said, “Remember how we used to go fishing at the river when you were just a little boy?”

  “Of course I remember.”

  “Those…those were fine days, weren’t they, Paul?” There was a sudden loneliness in his father’s eyes that caught Paul off guard. He had not been close to his father for years, and it came as a revelation to him to discover that somehow his father needed him. He kept his hand in place, and the two of them stood very still. “Yes, Father, they were good days. Very good days. I’ve never forgotten them.”

  Then the moment was broken as Austin came running up to ask Paul when the picture taking would start. “I’ll need about fifty pictures to keep the girls happy,” he said with a nod, at which both Paul and his father laughed and told him to go soak his head.

  “What’s next?” Claude asked, looking around at the cases of supplies neatly stacked on shelves.

  “Learn how to take pictures.”

  “Why, I thought you already knew how to do that!”

  “It’ll be a little different, what I plan to do. It’s one thing to get a picture in a studio, but I can’t imagine how to handle it in a wagon with cannon fire exploding all around.”

  Claude was startled. “I—I guess this photography thing is going to be a little different from what I had thought. Anything I can do to help?”

  “You’ve done a lot, Father.” Paul smiled. “Next thing is a What-Is-It wagon.”

  “A what kind of wagon?”

  “That’s what the soldiers called Brady’s wagon at Bull Run. It’s got to be tight as a jug, part of it has to be lightproof, and it’s got to have shelves specially built to hold supplies in place so they won’t bounce around or leak.”

  “Have you ever seen one of these contraptions?” Claude demanded.

  “No…but as soon as we build it, we’ll both have seen one!”

  “All right. What else?”

  “Got to hire an assistant. This isn’t going to be a one-man job. Takes one man to make the exposures, and another man to get the plates ready for the camera and develop the exposed plates.”

  “Better put an ad in the paper.”

  “Already did that. There won’t be too many applicants, t
hough. Not many unemployed daguerreoists running around Richmond, would you say, Father?”

  “Not only would I not say it; I can’t even pronounce it.” Claude grinned. “But if any applicants show up, I’ll send them on to you.”

  The What-Is-It wagon was finished a week later, but not a single applicant had appeared. “What’ll you do if you can’t hire anyone?” Marie asked Paul at breakfast.

  “Do without,” he grunted. He was growing thin, and the twenty-hour days he’d been putting in were cutting his nerves raw. He’d simply ignored everyone’s pleas that he slow down, for he felt that he had to get his technique perfected. Now he looked at his sister with bloodshot eyes and tried to smile. “I’m going to make a run. Don’t open the door to the wagon, okay?”

  When he left, Marie said, “Mother, he’s not going to hold up. He’s so tired he’s almost falling down. Why don’t you make him stop?”

  Marianne smiled at her daughter. “The last time I ‘made’ Paul do something was when he was twelve years old.” She looked thoughtfully out the window, catching sight of her son as he trudged toward the barn. “He was always this way—anything he did, he did it with all the strength he had.”

  The barn was warm, and Paul had mastered the technique of developing the plates in high temperatures. But he knew that battles would be fought in the snow, so he pulled the wagon outside and let the cold air bring the temperature down. Then he got back inside, closed the curtain, and began to work awkwardly. He was so tired that as he waited for the time to lapse between steps, he found himself dozing off. His fingers grew stiff and numb with cold, and he dropped a bottle of vile-smelling hypo, the fumes filling the room and making him feel sick.

  Then, just when he was involved in the last step, the curtain behind him suddenly opened! Paul yelped, “What the devil—!” He came out of the dark area and stopped abruptly, blinded by the sun. Squinting, he saw a figure standing before him, but he could only wait until his eyes grew accustomed to the light to see who it was.